Robin Williams was exciting to me because he seemed to be sat upon a geyser of comedy. Like he didn’t manufacture it laboriously within but had only to open a valve and it would come bursting through in effervescent jets. He was plugged into the mains of comedy. ... Now I am incapable of looking back at my fleeting meeting with him with any kind of objectivity, I am bound to apply, with hindsight, some special significance to his fragility, meekness and humility. Hidden behind his beard and kindness and compliments was a kind of awkwardness, like he was in the wrong context or element, a fallen bird on a hard floor. It seems that Robin Williams could not find a context. Is that what drug use is? An attempt to anaesthetise against a reality that constantly knocks against your nerves, like tinfoil on an old school filling, the pang an urgent message to a dormant, truer you. Of all the pieces Ive read, this is one of the most compelling and poignant yet. Beautifully written from the perspective of someone sitting on the same ledge that Robin did; the sad clown tormented by demons, struggling with addiction, people laughing all the way as he inches closer and closer to the edge. Outstanding commentary from a fellow comedian who knows that fight all too well. (And my hardcore crush on Russell Brand grows stronger still.)
Posted on: Tue, 12 Aug 2014 18:40:38 +0000
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